


Don't Call Me Mike Bison - This Here's a Bear-Knuckle Fight

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Far Cry 5 Radio Conversations, Gen, John's an Ass (TM), Sleep Deprivation, The Deputy Makes Questionable Life Choices, The Deputy is So Done, The Deputy is Tired (TM), Unusual Hobbies, Violence, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: “John, it is three in the morning."  The words snarl out into the radio, a savage growl made rough and primal by the rude awakening and the bottomless resevoirs ofragethat have just been unleashed.  "Whyam I hearing your voice right now?”"Oh, myappologies, Deputy."  The Baptist quite literally couldn't sound more disingenuously smug if he tried; amusement so thick in his voice as he purrs that its nearly visible.  "It's just that I've beenterriblyconcerned about your wellbeing.  You see..." a note of something different enters his voice, a bewildering hint of... sincerity?  "Some rather distressing rumors have found their way to me recently.”





	Don't Call Me Mike Bison - This Here's a Bear-Knuckle Fight

**Author's Note:**

> _Today's silliness is brought to you by - Far Cry 5's AI. Soooo... blame that. I am merely a conduit._
> 
> _Enjoy!_

The Montana sun’s blisteringly hot overhead, beating down on the world like the eye of a judgmental god.

Under most circumstances Robin would probably be cursing the oppressive heat with intense indignation. As it is, however, she actually can’t _feel_ it in the slightest. Instead, muscles quivering like jelly, chest heaving painfully as her strained lungs fight desperately for oxygen, vision shooting off spots of black and little white stars, the taste of blood cloying in her mouth and sticky on her skin, and whole damn body aching like she’s just got run over by a truck (and then had the truck back up over her, then accelerate forward _again_), Robin just feels… cold. And numb. And more than a little hollow.

_I…_ blinking against the spots and stars inside her eyes, Robin stares shakily down at her fallen foe. _I did it._

Somewhere underneath the exhaustion and pain, she feels like maybe there should be some sense of triumph – of fulfillment or _relief_. And… yeah, ok, there’s a little of that. Mostly though she just feels tired.

And sore.

And _annoyed_.

So. Very. Annoyed.

“You just… had to make this difficult. Make it _personal_,” her eyes narrow down at the oversized husk at her feet, words hissing out between clenched teeth and through painful gasps of breath, “didn’t you, you stupid bastard. _Well_,” Robin’s lips curl upwards, a sharp, very probably unhinged looking smile stretching ghoulishly across her face, “who’s laughing _now_?! Not you or your little friends,” a jittery, rather feral laugh escapes her lips, “because you’re all _dead_.” Stooping a little, Robin grins down at her slain foe, feeding off the annoyance to stave off the exhaustion and pain. “_I win._”

She lets the words hang in the air for a moment – _savors_ them, just as much as she savors the glassy-eyed stare of the corpse at her feet.

Then, another jittery laugh punching its way out after the savage gloat, Robin straightens back upright.

Just in time to catch a stilted flicker of movement off to the side, pulling her attention off her newly dead nemesis and onto a wide-eyed, shock-still Chosen standing a stone’s throw away.

And just when she thought she couldn’t get _more_ annoyed.

Slowly (partially from the exhaustion, partially from the pain, and partially from the increasingly deep well of ‘fuck-this-I’m-done’ inside her), Robin turns her head, staring levelly at the cultist who – weirdly enough – isn’t making any move to try and drug, capture, or attempt to murder her.

Really, it occurs on some almost subconscious level, the guy staring at her might just be one of the least murderous looking cultists she’s ever encountered.

In fact… though it is admittedly hard to tell with the balaclava, Robin thinks that the guy just looks kind of stunned.

Possibly thunderstruck.

_Definitely_ gobsmacked.

And, on closer inspection, there’s… some kind of weird gleam in his eyes.

Not that she particularly _cares_ about literally _any_ of that, mind.

But…

_Right._ She draws one long, deep breath through her nose, feeling every scrap of pain and fatigue all the more now that she’s faced with _another_ potential fight. _I just… don’t even want to deal with this right now._

And, at the moment, Robin… kind of feels like she really, truly, shouldn’t _have_ to deal with it.

So, fixing the Chosen with a sharp, very decidedly _Wrathful_ glare that sends a single spike of shivers through his giant, culty body before the stunned stillness overtakes him again, Robin bares her teeth and funnels all of her ire and indignation into one lethal syllable.

“_What._”

The guy goes still enough that she could almost imagine she’s spontaneously developed the ability to turn bitches to stone.

Then, like Death itself is on his heels (_Not today, you sick cult sonovabitch, you lucked the fuck out._) the guy turns fast enough to give himself whiplash and straight up _vanishes_ back into the woods.

A huffed sound – the unholy union of dark laughter and a primal snarl – falls from her lips as she watches the signs of exceedingly rapid departure. “That’s what I _thought_.” Head shaking in perturbation and weariness, she turns away from where a few startled birds have gone busting up from the forest canopy, a torrent of well-established frustration hissing out under her breath. “Stupid fucking Chosen, creeping on people from the damn fucking bushes.”

The lackluster _manners_ of some people.

Seriously.

“Now then…” Shaking herself, rolling her aching shoulders and testing her range of motion a little, Robin turns her gaze back to the rapidly cooling mass of previously murderous meat, her head canting a little to the side as – the Chosen no longer darkening her metaphorical doorstep – she turns her mind to ponder the problem at hand. “How in the _hell_ do I get you back to Wolf’s Den?”

##################

“– which certainly wasn’t the first time it had happened, but on this occasion I _really_ did think it was too much.”

“Sure as hell sounds like too much.” Shaking her head in disgust, Robin makes certain to place her tea cup down gently before the saucer drifts away. “I hope you got him to make up for the whole mess.”

“Yes, well, it took _some_ convincing…”

“Isn’t that just like him.”

“Indeed, Doctor.” Understanding nods are passed around the table. “Ultimately, however, I was able to impress the severity of the situation upon him, and he delivered his solemn blood oath that the weregild of seventy-four billiard balls, thirty-eight novelty coasters, and the collected works of John Phillip Sousa on 8-track would be delivered by the time of the new moon – as is fitting. And, should he attempt to escape his debt… well.” A slow, satisfied smile curls around exquisite features, exposing the hungry gleam of curved fangs. “I made certain to collect enough blood and fur to levy a proper death curse upon his traitorous head.”

“Well done, Lady Peaches;” the fellow seated at Robin’s left thumps the lily pad with his croquet mallet in approval, “that’s showing the beastie.”

The gentleman to Robin’s right tips his fascinator in a salute. “I’ll say – that wascally wabbit’s had it too good for too long.”

“Here here.” Grinning brilliantly and picking up her cup again (now that the bubbles have brought it back around), Robin lifts a toast in accordance to the communal commendation.

“Oh,” seated directly across from her, Robin can easily spot the blush of modesty on the cougar’s face, the red warm like embers under golden fur as Peaches demurely purrs, “you’re all too kind.” Then, having allowed a respectable moment to pass by and still basking in the well-deserved praise, the large feline dips her head towards the table. “Robin, might I trouble you for more tea?”

“Of course,” still grinning, the deputy reaches over a plucks a large salmon from the river, dutifully upending it over Peaches’ cup and dispensing a stream of smoky sweet tea for the cat before she turns to offer the fish to her other guests. “Doctor McCoy?”

There’s a long sigh from the physician, his gaze drifting longingly towards the fluorescent green liquid that Peaches is happily lapping up. Then, quite forlornly, he shakes his head. “None for me, thank you,” the doctor’s gaze shifts upwards, eyes squinting a little as he looks at the clock face painted into the large Mallorn tree above them. “It looks like I’ve got to be on my way; there’s been a murder at the Kentucky Derby and if we can’t figure out who the killer is than the tarantulas are bound to throw Jim into the volcano again.” Feeding his own cup and saucer to a nearby hedgehog, McCoy rises to his feet, gives a polite little bow, and pulls out his umbrella. Then, the accessory partially open, he stops, glancing down at Robin with a concerned look. “Look out for the mushrooms, will you? They don’t mean anyone any good.”

And, that said, the doctor finishes open his umbrella and drifts upwards into the green sky above.

Sighing a little, Robin shares an acquiescent look with the remaining guests. “Well, I guess one can’t very well upset the tarantulas…” She waits until the murmurs of agreement die down, then – with another little sigh – she turns and graces the man on her left with a bright grin. “How about you, Jamie? More tea?”

“Oh aye, and thank you Miss Robin.” Her grin is matched easily, the man shifting a little – such that his kilt lifts, just a little (not that she _looks_, mind) – to hold out his cup. “And another of those marvelous figgins, if you don’t mind.” Blowing lightly upon the now full cup, her gallant guest glances up over its rim at her, eyes sparkling. “They’re almost as delightful as your lovely self.”

“Why Mr. McCrimmon, you _knave_,” voice bright with barely restrained laughter, Robin flutters her eyelashes demurely (or as close to demure as she can get) as she releases the salmon back into the river. Then, winking at the bright burst of laughter and entirely ignoring Peaches’ long-suffering sigh, she turns towards the collection of pastries, reaching for one of the dragons perched nearby, “Would you like your figgin toasted, or –”

_“Oh Deputy, darling,”_ impossibly blue eyes suddenly stare at her from a reptilian face, lethally sharp teeth flashing up from a hungry grin, _“are you there?”_

Robin _recoils_, eyes flying wide as her hand goes groping for her gun – fingers closing on the familiar shape _just_ as her body finishes overbalancing itself and goes crashing to the floor in a tangle of threadbare blankets.

“_**Mother**_…” Flailing against the blankets, Robin finally manages to get herself quasi-upright, eyes darting around the dimly lit room in a panic, her 1911 sweeping through the air as she searches for -

_“Come now, my dearest Wrath – I **know** you can hear me. Be a dear and answer.”_

Chest still heaving wildly, Robin’s gaze darts up to the little end table next to her appropriated bunk, the horrible clarity of wakefulness crashing down around her like a collapsing building as her eyes fix on the radio from which the all too familiar, _obnoxiously_ over-articulated voice is coming.

A pained groan falls from her mouth, her gun-hand thumping back to the ground and her head falling limply backwards as she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to pretend that what she’s currently experiencing isn’t actually reality.

Unfortunately, that attempt gets booted right on off a cliff and down to an untimely and ill-deserved death with a burst of static, and dangerously sharp purr of _“Deputy…”_

Swearing over her breath, Robin manages to get herself more upright – at least long enough to grab the radio off the table – and then, still swearing, shakily plops herself back down onto her bunk while viciously pushing the button down with her thumb. “John…” the word, spilling from between clenched teeth, stands in place of curses too foul to actually exist. “It is…” casting her eyes around the room again, Robin nearly chucks the damn radio when her gaze lands on the atomic clock ticking cruelly away on one wall, “three in the _fucking_ morning. _Why_ am I hearing your voice right now?”

_“Oh, my **apologies** for disturbing your beauty sleep, Deputy.”_ The saccharine sweet purr curls into the air, as welcome as a drunkard’s fondling and as genuine as a politician’s apology (_And **fuck you**, you sick, petty **bastard**; you cult **asshats** are the only ones with the **time** for ‘beauty sleep’ these days_). Over-groomed _prick_. _Seriously_, she can damn well _hear_ the smug bastard grin in his voice. _“I would have called at a more reasonable hour,”_ the flood of transparent, smug and condescending mockery continues as Robin’s eye starts twitching furiously, _“but I was only just informed of your return to my humble territory.”_

Teeth grinding together hard enough to hurt, Robin squeezes her eyes shut tight and takes a few deep breaths to calm herself down before responding.

Then she thumbs her radio and makes a few suggestions about what John can do with and to a diseased moose.

Her very reasonable suggestion are merely met with a dainty little gasp, followed by a few (_extremely_ condescending) tsks. _“Such **rudeness**, my dear.”_ He almost sounds genuinely injured (_If only_) underneath all the patronizing; a few horribly put-upon and infuriatingly tolerant notes weaving around the medley of I’m-so-much-better-than-you-watch-me-prove-it-by-being-civilized he’s playing. Then after a lengthy sigh at the end of all the bad porno dialogue he’s spewing, John gets back to being a supercilious prick. _“And here I was calling out of concern for your wellbeing.”_

There’s a serious headache brewing behind her eyes – half from the exhaustion and a little more than half (_Fuck off, math_) from John. Wearily (in more ways than one), Robin scrubs her fingers over her eyelids, biting back another valid suggestion and not even wanting to try and figure out The Baptist’s current crazy on her own. “John, the fuck are you on about?”

That, rather surprisingly, is met with a moment of silence.

Then, just Robin’s blinking her eyes open – glancing down at the radio and trying to figure whether she’s neglected to let off the button or whether she’s just completely blanked out while the malicious chatterbox was running his mouth or whatever – there’s an answering burst of static.

_“Some… rather distressing rumors have found their way to me recently.”_ There’s some kind of weird edge in his voice, a note of something Robin’s not even awake enough (let alone in the mood) to try and work out underneath all the slick polish and raw condescension and yes-I’m-totally-in-control-of-myself-and-everything-ignore-the-regular-tantrums-and-bitch-fits-you-heathen-swine he’s still got going on. Just enough that she can notice the vaguest dip in mockery. Just enough that she gets the sense that he’s trying to finagle some kind of answers out of her as he – oh so casually – muses, _“Rumors about some of the goings-on in the Whitetail Mountains.”_

“Yeah, John, I wouldn’t worry about it. That’s just your standard barracks shittalk.” She scrubs her free hand over her face, rubbing at her burning eyes as she fights back a yawn. “Even we don’t _actually_ think that Jacob’s throwing bestiality orgies up there.”

_ “Wh- what –?!”_ The squawk – prepubescently high and squeaky – flings itself out into the air the _second_ her thumb comes off the radio. _“What are you – what do – wh- why would – **who** –?!”_ All John’s usual bastardly suavity’s _gone_, damn well _vanished_ as the transparent _horror_ he’s experiencing reduces him to a stuttering wreck.

Through the exhaustion and frustrated delirium, Robin’s lips quirk upwards.

It’s kind of cute…

The steady flow of hysterical babbling cuts off into a sharp, pointedly controlled intake of breath, which itself lapses into a _very_ pointed moment of silence as – presumably – The Baptist tries to get himself back under control.

_“I was **referring**,”_ John’s voice, when it returns, is almost a caricature of itself – each word perfectly measured and overly articulated, voice even enough to hang a picture frame by provided you ignore the deep well of seething fury (_Wraaaaaaaaath_) underneath it all. “To rumors about **you**.”

“Oh.” Robin blinks into the near darkness around her, nose wrinkling in distaste as that statement plays through her mind. “Well I’m _definitely_ not taking part in any bestiality orgies.” When would she even find the _time_, even were she so inclined… “Also,” head shaking itself, Robin’s frown intensifies, “how dare you accuse me of such a thing.” She sniffs, willing the sound to carry the entirety of her offense and displeasure across the air. “And _you_ call _me_ rude.”

_“Wha-?!”_ The squeaky horror floods back, pulling her fingers to an abrupt halt before they can switch off the radio. _“I wasn’t – I didn’t – that’s not wha- how is that even –?!”_ This time John’s stuttered horror veers abruptly off into a snarl. _“**Never mind.**”_ His voice is a little raw, frustration and a notable touch of embarrassment obvious even as he tries to project calm control. _“**Apparently** I have been **misinformed**.”_ There’s definitely the promise of _Atonement_ in those words, and even over the radio Robin can damn well _see_ John glaring in the direction of some unsuspecting and soon-to-be-sorry Peggy. _“No doubt the sheer… flood of **depraved nonsense** issuing from your heathen friends up North,”_ there’s a touch of defensiveness there too – the ingrained blame-shifting habits of a lawyer showing themselves to be alive and well, _“has led to some **confusion**.”_

Oh yeah, blame-shifting or no, someone’s getting their ass _**Atoned**_; John sounds so pissed that those last few words are nearly _primal_ as he snarls them.

Robin’s actually a little preoccupied with that thought – and with how certain parts of her brain (backed up by certain parts of her anatomy) are insisting that, when not direct _at **her**_, that’s a _**very**_ appealing sound for Mr. The Baptist – that she actually tunes his rant out for a bit, only really making sense of his various mouth-sounds as she catches the low, disgruntled mumble of _“Fist-fighting a **bear** of all things…”_

“Oh, the _bear._” The sound of her own voice actually startles her a little, sleep-deprived brain spinning a little as memories flit through it, dancing around each other and… “Oh yeah, no, that… that…” The memories finally click themselves into place. “That totally happened.”

There’s a moment of silence.

_“I … beg your pardon?”_

“The whole…” Robin waggles the fingers of her free hand through the air in an attempt to conjure words. “Bear punching thing,” _Ah, hello words, there you are._ “That happened.” A thought hits her abruptly, bringing a little rush of surprise that pulls her eyes down to her radio, “Wait, you heard about that?”

There’s another, noticeably _longer_, moment of silence.

Then…

_“You…”_ John’s voice has got a weird, almost hollow sounding little quiver in it. _“You actually got… into a fist-fight… with a **bear**.”_

“I mean,” Robin shrugs through a yawn she can’t fully stifle, “technically I _won_ a fist fight with a bear.”

_“You…”_ Weirdly enough, John also sounds like he’s having trouble with the whole finding words thing. _“**Why**…”_ there’s a faint tremor in his voice too, kind of a blend of quiet horror and sheer bewilderment (which is a very specific sound and one that Robin, sad to say, is very used to hearing directed her way – though catching it from John “Motherfuck-you-too” Seed is _slightly_ disorienting). _“Why did you get into a fist-fight with a bear?”_

Burning with exhaustion or no, Robin’s eyes sharpen as they glare down at the radio. “_Won._ I _won_ a fist-fight with a bear.” Because yeah, that’s kind of an important detail, and one that she doesn’t feel is being given enough respect.

There’s an answering… sound (a whimper, maybe?) over the radio. _“R- right. You **won**. But… **why**…?”_

Sufficiently appeased by the acknowledgement of her mighty victory, Robin eases off the glare and shrugs lightly. “’Cause it killed my bison.”

Silence descends again.

Then…

_“Bison?”_

“Yeah.” She nods a little, “The one I was trying to punch to death.”

_More_ silence.

_Then_…

_“**What**?”_

“Look, John, it’s simple.” Sighing, Robin leans over and slumps against the wall, settling herself in as she cocks one leg up onto the bed to rest her radio arm on. “I was trying to punch a bison to death, but then this bear came outta the woods and for _some_ fucking reason it ignored me and started trying to kill my bison. And _I’d_ already gotten the damn thing on the ropes so the bear just… finished it off.” The memory of it’s still fresh, too; a low current of _rage_ simmering inside her as she recounts the injustice. “And then the bison _was_ dead, but _not_ because _I’d_ punched it to death, and _obviously_ I couldn’t let the bear get away with that,” she scoffs at the very thought, derision and incredulity echoing through the darkened room. “So I punched the _bear_ to death.”

It had been _so satisfying_.

Well… once she’d calmed down enough to feel emotions other than intense indignation and blind rage, anyway.

Which had… _kind of_ taken a while, because… well…

Another sigh, much lengthier and vastly more weary (with the lingering ghost of _annoyance_ along for the ride), punches its way out into the air, and Robin’s head thumps against the wall. “Of course, then I had to go and find a _new_ bison, so I could punch _that_ one to death and…” She trails off into a disgruntled groan, lifting her free hand to rub at her temples and eyes. “Honestly the whole thing was just a massive hassle.”

_“I – bu- you…”_ John’s bewildered stuttering returns full force, a few awkward seconds after she remembers to get her thumb off the radio, before he goes silent again – but for little flailing gasps and some confused puppy noises. _“Why…”_ there’s a little note of desperation in John’s voice when he regains coherency, like he’s latched desperately onto a single thought and is clinging to it for dear life. _“Were you trying to punch a bison to death?”_

A little confused herself (in regards to the source of _John’s_ confusion, no less), Robin just shrugs again. “Some of the Whitetails said they didn’t think I could.”

Silence falls.

_Again_.

And this time it doesn’t look like it’s going to pick itself back up anytime soon.

Which, honestly, shows signs of being a good thing, because the lull is giving Robin a chance to actually think about what all’s going on.

“Wait…” The past few minutes analyzed and added to the protracted silence, Robin’s suddenly getting hit with a sneaking suspicion that… “John… is…” Slowly, sharp and narrow as the suspicion grows, Robin’s gaze falls back to the radio – willing her steely stare to travel through the little brick and all the way over the air to pierce right on through John, because suddenly she’s _pretty_ sure that… “Is this the only reason for this call?”

Her thumb eases off the radio.

She waits.

The silence is telling.

Slowly – very slowly; very, _very_ slowly – Robin brings her radio up again. “Right.” Somehow, even she’s not sure how and/or why, she’s not even angry. A little disappointed, maybe; but mostly she just feels kind of… resigned. And maybe a little embarrassed that, exhaustion or no, it’d taken her so long to realize the blatantly obvious and remember that John really was this much of a dumb bitch. _And_ a bastard. Because _really_ John, this conversation had to happen at three-in-the-fucking-AM?

“I’m going back to bed now, John.” She ultimately says, as opposed to saying all that she’s feeling; partly because it’s faster and mostly because she trusts her tone to convey the emotions well enough. “Do me a favor? Go find yourself a diseased moose. Or, you know, eat a landmine or something before I wake back up, ok?” Pushing herself up off the wall, Robin slips seamlessly into her old on-the-job-and-dealing-with-a-_complete_-idiot-and-or-unbelievable-fucking-_bastard_ guise, a sunshiny smile dawning on her face as her eyes go Bambi-wide-and-innocent and her voice going incontestably sweet and irreproachable as she chirps, “Thanks Johnny, _bye_!”

And, with that, she clicks off her radio and drops it unceremoniously onto the side table.

Then, and only then, does the annoyance start to rise up again.

Flopping back down onto the lumpy, stabby, questionably scented mattress, Robin throttles the urge to start kicking and flailing her frustration like a grounded teenager and just throws her arm across her eyes while groaning out her displeasure. “The _hell_ is with that guy?”

“Right?” The voice – as rough and raspy from lack of sleep as hers is, and nearly as annoyed – reaches her from the lower bunk on the other wall, and as soon as Robin stretches out her free arm (blindly and instinctively) Nick meets it with the Bro-Fist of Acknowledgement and Accordance. “Fucking _weirdo_.”

There’s another sound of congruity from the bunk above Nick – albeit one that sounds a hair less annoyed and a great deal more amused. “Ask me, he just really needs to get laid.”

Despite herself (and everything else), Robin finds herself chuckling over Nick’s disgusted growl. “Yeah,” Slowly retracting herself, and fumbling to get her threadbare blanket back off the ground and over herself without having to open her eyes, Robin shakes her head at Sharky’s sleep-delirious chorus of ‘bow-chicka-wow-wows’ and settles herself back down for (hopefully) a remaining night’s sleep. “I do _not_ volunteer for that.”

##################

Meanwhile, at Seed Ranch, John Seed stares blankly at the now silent radio before him, exquisitely tattooed fingers trembling even as they clench around the receiver.

A few minutes tick past before The Baptist can rouse himself – slow, measured movements as he leans forward slightly to return the receiver to its proper place before, unable to suppress a series of full-bodied shivers, he leans back and… slumps, just a touch, into the soft leather of an offensively expensive armchair.

Another few minutes pass this way, John near boneless and shaking in the chair, skin pale and eyes blown wide as he stares into nothing.

“She…”

His voice – raspy and trembling – cuts through the stillness like a gunshot, startling him back into silence for a moment.

Then, trying to breathe steadily, John raises his shaking hands; clasping them together in an attempt to calm their trembling and pressing them against his equally quivering lips.

“She… _actually_… fought a bear.” The words hang in the air, sounding as impossible in his voice as they had in his dear Deputy’s. “With her bare han- _ugh_.” John’s eyes seize shut as a purely reflexive act of self-preservation, the built-in pun making the whole situation so much more… “And she did it because –” He _tries_ move on, but…

Swearing under his breath, John shifts to press his knuckles against his forehead.

It doesn’t change the reality of the conversation that had just taken place.

“She _punched_. A _bear_. To _death_.” It doesn’t sound any less implausible the second time. “Well…” Taking a moment to _really_ dig his knuckles against his forehead, John takes a deep breath and forces his hands to unclench, gliding his fingers up and through his hair, head tilting back as he stares blankly upwards. “I guess that Chosen _wasn’t_ crazy, after all.”

John… hadn’t expected that.

In fact, when his last visit to the Barbaric North had presented him with clusters of wide-eyed faithful, all of whom were passing around the tale like teenage girls sharing the latest salacious boyband news, John had – quite reasonably – assumed that there had simply been an undisclosed Bliss spill at St. Francis. And that had been _before_ the _exact_ nature of the – utterly _ludicrous_ – tale had been presented to him.

But now… having received confirmation from his dearest Wrath’s own lips…

It’s _completely **ridiculous**_!

But –

Well…

The Deputy hadn’t _sounded_ like she was being dishonest…

And it wasn’t as though she was widely renowned for her _temperance_…

And past experience certainly supported the idea that she was _capable_ of such an act…

If nothing else it certainly _would_ explain why John had walked in to find _Jacob_ – of all people – bent over a series of files and folders and enough photographs of The Deputy to open a somewhat homogeneous art gallery, his eldest brother single-mindedly and _quite_ uncharacteristically revamping _all_ his plans for their greatest foe.

So maybe… _just maybe_…

It’s just that it’s so _ridiculous_ that –

But still…

A shuddering gasp falls from his lips, drawn long and low from deep within his lungs as he slowly lifts himself upright – posture correct and hands falling from where they’re tangled in his hair to rest casually on the chair’s arms – and, taking a deep breath, nods to the empty room. “She punched a bear to death.” It almost sounds plausible, the third time said. “Because it killed her bison.” His fingers drum across the leather, his head nodding (just a touch shakily) as he continues. “And then she punched another bison to death, and all because a collection of pseudo-military rednecks dared her to.” John lets the words hang in the air for a moment, mulling them over and trying to accept the reality – however absurd it may be – that he has been presented with. Then, something that can _technically_ be called a smile spreading across his face, John reaches out to pick up a (larger than Joseph would approve of) glass of Scotch, his voice bright and cheerful and certainly not trembling as he sighs, “Sure, why not.”

And, with a toast raised to the world gone mad, John knocks the glass back in one too-well-practiced go.

It helps.

A little.

Enough that he feels perfectly justified in lifting himself from his chair and crossing the room to refill his glass.

Once or twice.

Maybe three times.

Which is _perfectly_ reasonable, given the circumstances.

Because, _apparently_, he’s living in a world where young women see nothing unusual with punching _wild **fucking** animals_ to death on a _fucking bet_.

It’s just…

It’s _so_…

She’d…

And…

_Jacob_ had been _fucking **scrapbooking**_, damn it, and that’s something he’ll never be able to unsee. Fucks sake, he’d half expected to look down and see ‘Mr. Jacob and Mrs. Deputy Seed’ scribbled and surrounded by hearts across the papers in his brother’s hand. Because apparently one bout of pugilism with _ursus fucking arctos_ and some _fucking bison_ was all it took to turn his pragmatic and prudent big brother into a lovestruck teenager – discarding much loved plans of brainwashing and proxy murder in favor of wedding invitations and _baby names_. The whole encounter had been _**terrifying**_ and John challenges _anyone_ to protest that he isn’t due a little liquid comfort.

Anyone but Joseph, obviously.

Fuck but he needs another drink.

Somewhere around the fifth – _Sixth? Seventh? Ah, fuck it, who’s counting_ – glass, John thinks he might _finally_ be processing the whole ordeal.

His jaw has finally stopped falling open of its own accord, at any rate; and that certainly feels like a good sign.

Another lengthy sigh leaving him, John heads back to his chair and settles into it, one leg crossing decorously over the other as he swirls the amber liquid in its glass and gazes thoughtfully into the distance.

Slowly a picture begins to form, a little purrs leaving him as it does. “She killed a grizzly bear with her bare hands.”

The scene unfolds before his eyes – a field of battle like something from the Days of Old, some dark fairy tale or pagan myth, _**Wrath**_ in all of her _primal_ glory, an unearthly creature locked in a life or death struggle with a terrible beast, a vision of blazing red hair and brilliant green eyes, the lovely face made otherworldly and _exquisite_ by bloodthirsty savagery, the _spectacular_ body _dancing_ upon the field of battle, heaving and glistening with sweat and streaked with blood as she –

John comes back to his senses with a start – amber liquid sloshing a little and spilling down over his fingers, pulse thundering, heart racing, breath caught up in his lungs and –

_Oh… fuck._

Face burning in a way that has only a little to do with the alcohol and the… vision that had just forced itself upon him, John glares downwards in intense disapproval. “Stop it.” One of his eyes is twitching slightly, in testament to his offended state. “I am _not_ Jacob, _I_ am a _civilized_ man.” He lets the words – clipped and sharp enough to cut – hang in the air out of clemency, glare narrowing further and lips pulling back from his teeth when the window for remorseful compliance is ignored. “I’m serious. Stop it, _right_ now.”

To John’s _immense_ displeasure, his erection does not comply with the order.

Just the _opposite_, in fact.

“Oh for –” Flushing all the more incandescently, John slams his glass down on the table, mindless of how a disgraceful amount of the prohibitively expensive liquor goes sloshing up and onto the hardwood, and throws his head back against his chair in frustration.

“_Damn **everything**_.”

He sits there, alone and motionless in the early morning silence, for a few minutes – head pressed back into the buttery leather, the palms of his hands digging into his squeezed-shut eyes and fingers clawing into his hair, trying his damnedest to breathe normally as he dutifully ignores the continued heat and throbbing in his suddenly too tight pants.

Then, abruptly, John pulls himself upright again, claps his hands together sharply, and rises smoothly to his feet.

“Right then.” The sharp smile from earlier is back, only smooth and easy rather than forced. “Bear punching.” John shakes his head with a little sigh, catching up his glass once more and gazing thoughtfully into the remaining amber for a few breaths. “_Clearly_,” he sighs, shaking his head a little in resigned sorrow, “that is a cry for help, if ever there was one.”

And then, with a deciding nod, John drains the glass and turns to make his way to bed.

His mind is racing as he goes, a little notebook out and between his fingers and a pencil scratching down notes as he makes his way through the darkened halls of his home. He has a great deal to do in the morning, once he's properly rested; a significant number of changes that need to be made to his current plans if he is to be _any_ sort of responsible shepherd or – if nothing else – _gentleman_. He hums a little to himself, nodding slightly at that thought; _obviously_ his earlier plan of allowing Wrath to indulge herself hadn’t been _quite_ right, and it was only fitting that he make the efforts to correct that error. After all… bear punching. John shudders a little (in _horror_ and _sympathy_. And nothing. Else.) as he enters his rooms. That is not a hobby that speak of a healthy mind state.

Moreover - he muses with a firm nod and sense of determination, gliding from his closet properly attired for sleep, and easing himself into the cloudlike embrace of his bed - allowing _Jacob_ to take custody of the Deputy in this stage is _absolutely_ unthinkable; Voice only knows what his brother – with his dubious ideas of what constitutes strength and human worth – would do with the poor girl while she was in such a state. _Encourage_ her dangerous impulses, no doubt. No, no. By no means could John allow Jacob to take the Deputy into his custody – it would be _inhumane_.

And (he muses, shifting a little beneath the silken sheets and allowing himself an indulgent purr as a wave of hungry warmth sweeps over his body), anyway... the Deputy had blown up things in _John’s_ region _first_.

He has _**dibs**_.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Warnings: Off-screen Animal Death/Hunting, Adult-type Language, and Sexual Content. And Poor Life Choices. _SO_ many Poor Life Choices.
> 
> _So this is 100% something that happened to me, way back when I was getting the "Where's the Beef" achievement taken care of. With the added benefit that I had already bought brass knuckles, so in order to get the achievement I was actually trying to **kick** the bison to death. **And**, because I'm weird, I'd decided to try and get the achievement**without** using Furious. So after chasing a stupid oversized quadruped around for about 5 literal minutes, while trying to **kick** it to death, I finally got it down on to the limping-near-death stage. And then the bear appeared. I... may not have reacted well. In fact, I'm not entirely certain that I actually accessed Furious from the inventory wheel, I think I might have actually just triggered it remotely. So the bear died, by way of the brass knuckles this time, and then I had to go chase down **another** bison. Eventually I found, chased, and killed that one, got the achievement, and then just sort of stood there, **seething** for a few seconds; after which I turned to go do the next thing... and saw a Chosen standing on the edge of the treeline, facing me and clearly being in agro range but not moving at all. At which point it hit me that the whole situation - going to punch a bison to death on (effectively) a dare, getting screwed over by a random bear, punching the **bear** to death in a rage, then going to punch **another** bison to death to win the dare, all under the stunned watch of a Chosen...? Was **100%** something that would happen with/to Robin Baird. And, at this point, all the frustration **evaporated** and I ended up laughing myself sick._
> 
> _So, as I said in the intro notes - just a bit of silliness, courtesy of the weird shenanigans caused by Far Cry 5's occasionally hilarious AI. Hope y'all enjoyed this, and see you next time!_ ^x^/


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